


Tuckingfun

by QueSeraAwesome



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: M/M, Shorts, Tumblr Ask Box Fic, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-06
Updated: 2015-02-06
Packaged: 2018-02-12 01:26:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 4,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2090562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueSeraAwesome/pseuds/QueSeraAwesome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Series of short Tuckington fics that are really too short to put up here on their own. Each chapter is a standalone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I swore I would never do this and yet, here we are.

"That’s a good look for you," Tucker says.

"What?" Wash says, stretching sleepily, feline. "Naked? In your bed?"

"I mean, yeah," Tucker says, caught off-guard. "That too. Like a lot. Great look. Top five contender there."

Wash chuckles, lifts his head to look at Tucker from across the room.

"What did you mean, then?" Wash asks.

Tucker shrugs, turns away.

"What?" Wash presses.

"I meant…" Tucker blows out a frustrated breath. "Happy, okay? You looked happy."

He starts rummaging with the contents of his desk, back to Wash and avoiding his gaze. Wash sits up, staring at the unhappy lines of Tucker’s body.

"Hey," he says getting up and crossing the room. Tucker quiets when he places his hands on his hips, tucks his nose against his hair. "I am, Tucker. I am."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Triggers for panic attacks, PTSD like symptoms

He’s almost got his breathing back under control, heart still beating out of time and too fast, the shaking chattering his teeth when Tucker finds him on the couch.

It’s two in the morning. It was a dream. It was the memory of a panic attack, the memory of things his body never actually felt. His body doesn’t know they aren’t real, not yet. He’s been through this before. He’s just got to wait for the shaking to stop. There wasn’t any reason to wake up Tucker.

Tucker sighs when he sees him, strides across the room to sit next to Wash on the couch, throws an arm around him, a line of warmth, of human contact that Wash’s so thankful for he could cry.

"You should’ve woke me up," Tucker snaps, annoyed.

Wash shakes against him, can’t stop it. The line of equal annoyance isn’t helping. Breathe in. Breathe out. Heart beat. One. Two. Three. Four. Breathe in. Keep breathing. (The heat, the skin against his helps more than he wants to admit.)

"You don’t have to stay," he forces out.

Tucker sighs. Tightens his arm around Wash’s back, leans against him almost aggressively.

"Shit, I know that," he says. "I don’t have to do shit."

Tucker shifts away and Wash clenches his eyes shut, forces down another shudder. It doesn’t quite work.

"C’mere, dumbass," Tucker says. "I know it helps you to have someone to hold on to."

Tucker shifts, back pulls Wash against him, and Wash goes. He doesn’t have the best control of his limbs right now, but Tucker maneuvers them to lying down, Wash’s head resting against Tucker’s chest, tucked under his chin, and Tucker’s arms wrapped securely around him.

Slowly, his heart beat slows. It’s easier to do when he’s got one to match. The shaking stops. Wash wiggles his toes, his fingers experimentally. All good. All his pieces here and in working order again. He’s tired. Exhausted.

"Thanks," he says, lifting his head from Tucker’s chest. Tucker snorts, brings a hand up to put his head back down.

"Next time, wake me up, dumbass."


	3. Chapter 3

He hears the words, more than he feels himself say them. It’s weird, to hear your voice saying things you don’t want it to, you didn’t decide to say. He’s not even quite sure how it happened in the first place.

He’s not actually sure who’s more surprised, Tucker or him.

The silence stretches on, stretched tight and ready to snap.

Tucker is staring at him. Wash wishes he’d just look somewhere, anywhere else.

"Can we pretend I didn’t just say that?" he asks, when it gets too unbearable.

Tucker doesn’t say anything. Keeps staring. It makes him feel flushed, overheated, and simultaneously makes his skin prickle from the sudden chill in the air. Tucker doesn’t look away. Doesn’t say anything.

Wash sighs, turns to walk away.

"Wait, no!"

Wash keeps walking.

"Forget it, Tucker,"

There’s an animal snarl from behind him, but before he can turn, Tucker’s right there, has grabbed him and spun him around to face him.

"No, we can’t just fucking forget it," Tucker snaps, slamming him back against the wall. "You can’t say shit like that and just leave, asshole,”

"Look," Wash says, putting his hands out placating. "I’m sorry, okay? I shouldn’t have—"

"Don’t be fucking sorry—"

"I didn’t mea—"

Tucker shoves him back against the wall again, covers his mouth with his hand before he can finish the sentence. Wash is too shocked, too busy hurting inside to fight back.

"Don’t say you didn’t mean it," Tucker says, eyes fever-bright and inches from his. "Don’t say you didn’t mean it. Unless you really didn’t."

His eyes bore into Wash’s, a challenge, a demand, the fleeting glimpse of a plea. They stay like that for what feels like forever, Tucker’s palm covering Wash’s lips, their eyes locked, the cool of the shaded cement seeping into Wash’s back. Finally, Tucker takes his hand off Wash’s mouth.

Wash doesn’t say anything.

"That’s what I thought," Tucker says.

"Tucker," Wash says, can’t help the way he leans forward, into him.

"I need to clear my head," Tucker says, pushing off the wall and turning away. "Think about shit."

Wash watches him go helplessly.

"Don’t think this is over," Tucker calls over his shoulder. "We’re talking about this shit."

Wash closes his eyes, leans his head back against the cool cement.

"Hey, asshole! Listen when I’m talking to you!"

Wash opens his eyes, scowls at Tucker from the shade.

"Aren’t you gone yet?"

"I want to say something first," Tucker calls from across the distance between them. "What you said before?"

Wash nods tersely.

"Same," Tucker says. Like it’s easy. Like that one syllable, like the meaning behind it doesn’t knock the breath out of Wash, doesn’t have his skin hyper-sensitive and too-tight, like Wash isn’t aching just from the possibility behind that one word.

"We’ll talk when I get back," Tucker says, turning and walking away.


	4. Chapter 4

It’s a terrible pick up line. It’s one of his worst, and it wasn’t what he was planning on saying, but he says it, okay, it happened. It’s not his fault, Wash’s just got his helmet off and he’s got stupid freckles fucking everywhere and he’s laughing and telling this story, and he just fucking says it.

"We need to make out right now," Tucker says. "For science."

Wash stops mid-story, surprise etched all over his face. Tucker may panic a bit.

"I mean—"

"For science, huh?" Wash interrupts.

He looks like he’s frowning. Or at least trying to frown. There’s a bit of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Tucker would know. He’s spent a lot of time staring at those lips when they’re available, and cataloging Wash’s smiles, what few there are.

"Uh, yeah," Tucker says. "Science. Right. Totally a scientific. Thing."

Wash is staring at him, and look, Tucker’s not sure what this look means. It’s not the You’re-gonna-run-all-the-laps-now-dumbass look, or the Caboose-is-annoying-but-I’m-fond-of-him look or the That-was-so-stupid-I’m-putting-my-brain-back-together look. This one’s new. And that’s terrifying.

"You know, what?" Wash says, finally. "No."

"What?" Tucker squawks. "I mean, sure, man. Whatever, dude. It’s not like science will care—"

"I wasn’t finished yet," Wash interrupts. "I said, I’m not going to make out with you. For science."

A beat.

"Yeah," Tucker says. Humiliation is crawling in his gut. "I got that—"

"If we’re gonna make out," Wash says, leaning forward, stepping right into Tucker’s personal space and making him instinctively press backward into the wall he was leaning against. "It’s going to be because you want to make out. With me.”

Wash’s face is very close to his, looming over his, but, like, in a sexy way. All those stupid freckles and that barely-there smirk, and fuck he’s got really nice eyelashes for a dude, and fuck, his lips, don’t stare at his lips.

" _Fuck_ science," Wash says, enunciating clearly.

Tucker’s brain may break a little from the close-up of Wash’s lips saying “fuck.”

"No," his mouth says, again, without consultation from his brain. "Fuck _me_."

This time, Wash really does smirk, and Tucker’s not really to be blamed for his reaction, c’mon, you’d launch yourself at the guy too.

They don’t make out for science. (They don’t have sex for science either.)


	5. Chapter 5

"Okay," Wash says, after the yelling is (mostly) over. "We can continue arguing in the morning. For now, we should make camp. Is this location secure, Carolina?"

She nods, ignoring Dr. Grey, who’s still bouncing happily around her with medical equipment.

"It should be," she says, "but I haven’t been back in a while. We could use a perimeter check."

"Not you, honey," Dr. Grey chips in, in clear defiance of Carolina’s earlier directive."You need to keep off that leg for a bit."

“‘Honey’ gets the same rules as ‘sweetie,’” Carolina says, but her voice still has that smile in it.

“ _Feisty_ ,” Dr. Grey coos. “No perimeter checks.”

"I’ll do it," Wash says, standing. "Be right back."

"What? No!" Tucker protests. Everyone stares. "I mean, I’ll go with you."

"Weak," Grif whispers as Tucker passes by. Tucker hits him.

"Be back in a few," Wash says to the group. "We’ll radio if something’s wrong."

Wash doesn’t establish a perimeter like Grif does. Dude goes a half mile out, checking the surrounding area for surprises. Tucker follows.

"Something the matter, Private?" Wash asks once they’re out of earshot of the others.

"What? No. Why would there be something wrong on this fucked up planet with it’s fake Civil War that real people keep dying from? Everything’s _peachy_.”

"I meant with you," Wash says as they walk, eyes scanning the surrounding area.

"Me? Nothing’s wrong with me. I’m awesome. Why would you think anything was not-awesome?"

"That outburst back there?" Wash says.Tucker avoids his gaze. "Tucker, if there’s something wrong, we need to talk about it,"

Tucker snorts.

"Yeah, I know, but look, not talking... hasn’t really worked for us. In the past."

"It’s nothing," Tucker says. "C’mon, let’s perimeter and shit."

"Tucker—"

"I just really need to have you around right now, okay? Like, within eyesight," Tucker bursts out. "I’m really sick of you fucking off on me, man. That’s Church’s job. Stick to yours, yelling at me and making me do squats and shit."

"...I wasn’t ‘fucking off on you," Wash says slowly. "I was trying to save your life from a dangerous sociopath."

"Yeah, I know that," Tucker says. "I know that. Just…just, stick around. Okay?"

Wash’s steps slow, letting Tucker take the lead while he gather’s his thoughts. After a few moments Tucker stops, looks back at him over his shoulder.

"…That’s my job?" Wash asks, eventually. "Yelling at you and making you exercise."

"And saying stupid emotional shit," Tucker says, turning around and continuing down the path.

"So, what’s your job?" Wash asks, falling into step beside him.

"Being a hunka-hunka-burning badass love. Duh."

"Right. Sure."


	6. Chapter 6

Wash stares. Tucker avoids his gaze, arms crossed tightly across his chest.

"I…" Wash trails off. Closes his mouth. Opens it. Restarts. "Could you…Could you repeat that?"

"No," Tucker snaps, too quickly. A beat. "Wait…what?"

"Just..I think I heard you wrong. Could you say it again?"

Now it’s Tucker’s tun to stare in disbelief. And then it’s like a wall slams up, Tucker’s body language cutting him off, pulling tighter and away.

"Heeeell, no. Fuck you, dude. One time offer. No take backs, returns or exchanges. I hope you had your audio recorder going."

"Tucker, I…."

"Yeah?" Tucker says, challenge in the tilt of his helmet. "What?"

Wash opens his mouth, but the words get caught in his throat. Heavy stones, too far down for him to get a grip on. Out of reach. Stuck.

He just can’t.

"That’s what I thought," Tucker says, turning away, and the chaotic tumble of emotion sitting in Wash’s chest solidifies into fear. He goes after him, reaches for his shoulder

"Tucker, wait—”

"No, that’s not how this works, asshole," Tucker snaps, shoving him off. "I say it, you can either say it back or go the fuck away. You didn’t say shit, so, just, fuck off—”

"It’s not that— Look, I’m trying," Wash insists, reaching for Tucker’s arm again and trying to pull him around to face him. "This is just hard for me—"

"No shit it’s hard!" Tucker yells, throwing Wash’s hand off his arm again, and rounding on him. "It’s hard on everyone. This shit, it’s never easy! You think I fucking wanted this to happen? My life would be ten times easier if I didn’t give a fuck about anyone, about Church, about the Reds, Caboose or you. Especially you, you asshole. I mean, fuck. Why the fuck did it have to be you?”

"I’m sor—"

"Shut the fuck up. Right now. Unless you’re gonna let me down easy or some crap, don’t even go there, dude. I said it. Don’t— don’t regret it. Any of it. I knew what I was getting into. So just, don’t do that. Apologize."

"Tucker," Wash makes an aborted grab for Tucker’s hand again, stops himself. He casts around frantically, trying to think of something, anything to make Tucker— "Look, I…"

Wash brings up his hands to his helmet seals, undoes the latches. When he takes his helmet off he’s hyper aware of the way his hair’s flattened to his head, the sweat running down the side of his nose, the way it’s hard to keep Tucker’s gaze, but he doesn’t dare look away. Exposed. Nowhere to hide.

"Tucker…"

Tucker doesn’t take off his helmet, but Wash can feel his gaze, searching his face. Wash isn’t even sure what he’s seeing there. Sadness. Misery. Hope. Fear. Desperation. An answer to— to what Tucker had said earlier. An answer to whatever he’s looking for now. Wash just hopes he’s got the right one.

Tucker doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t try to leave again. Wash’s not sure that’s a win or not.

"I can’t say it yet," Wash says. "I can’t. Just…just give me a little time."

Tucker searches his face again. Wash’s fingers clench around the edge of his helmet, but he doesn’t move to put it back on.

"Yeah,"" Tucker says after a too-long moment. "Yeah. Okay. I…"

Tucker sighs, a long inhale and exhale that sound painful.

"I’m going for a run," he says, turning away again. "Yell if you want to catch up."

He starts a slow jog, off in the direction of the trails they’d cut out of the undergrowth. Wash watches his retreating form.

"I will," he yells, after him.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Triggers for panic attacks

He finds Tucker on the floor, hunched over and gasping and clutching his head, and for a second his heart stops, but there’s no blood, and he recognizes the signs, how could he not, and he doesn’t know what set him off, but that’s not actually that important right now.

"Tucker, look at me— just breathe, okay?" Wash says, kneeling beside him and taking Tucker’s head in his hands, forcing him to look at him. "You’re okay. You’re not dying. It’s a panic attack. So just look at me, listen to me, okay? I’m going to keep talking. You’re not dying. I know it feels like you are, but you’re not. I’ve had these before, and they suck, but you’re not dying. I’m right here. I’m going to stay here until you’re okay, okay?"

Tucker nods shakily, eyelids fluttering closed, chest still heaving in uneven staccato gasps.

"Hey, look at me, if you can, okay? Just…" Wash struggles for words, he was never any good at this. "Just listen to me. I’ll keep talking. I don’t know what I’m going to say, but just listen to me, just focus on that, it’ll help. It’ll be over soon. And I’m not going anywhere."


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt "the awkwardness that ensues from seeing alternate versions of yourselves make out." Hee.

Look, they find weird shit, okay? Time travel. Getting pregnant with Alien Jesus. Ragemonster AI. Computer programs in people’s heads. Purple flying machines. He’s over it. Nothing is ever gonna strike Tucker as strange, ever again.

So the Portal isn’t a strange thing. Looking into it and seeing himself standing on the other side, that isn’t weird either. Except, it’s not him. This Tucker, he’s got black accents on his aqua armor. His hair’s shorter, cropped close to his head (a military haircut, even if he doesn’t want to admit it). He looks pissed off, angrily staring out a viewport of a ship or something.

He looks…hard. Angry. Professional. Like a douchebag.

"Is that you?" Wash asks from his side. "I almost didn’t recognize you. You look…different."

"I know," Tucker says. "I look like a gigantic asshole."

"I was going to say, you look actually like a badass."

"Hey!" Tucker protests, "I’m already a stone-cold badass. Jackass. Wait, does he have a sniper rifle too? Fuck, I hate this me already. Fucker.”

"I know that ship," Wash says. "That looks like the…"

He catches Tucker looking at him, averts his gaze.

"Nevermind."

Tucker’s turns his attention back to his alternate. Hates him already.

"I wonder if this is some kind of alternate universe portal," Wash muses.

Tucker snorts.

"Yeah, dude. Kinda figured that out already."

"Oh, shut up. I bet the other you could kick your ass."

An alternate Wash in the same old gray and yellow stalks into the picture, catches sight of Alterna-Tucker and makes a beeline for him. He looks younger. Blonder. Less worrylines around his eyes, and forehead, but he’s making a decent effort at earning them right now.

His mouth is moving, but they can’t hear anything, the sound muffled and distorted, like trying to hear underwater. He looks pissed, even more pissed when Other Tucker doesn’t turn around, just crosses his arms tighter and keeps looking out the port.

"Well, I was going to say you look like Other-You’s got a smaller stick up his ass, buuutt—"

"Shh," Wash says. "I’m trying to hear."

Other-Wash grabs Alterna-Tucker by the shoulder, yanks him to facing him, throat working and expression irate. Alterna-Tucker scowls right back, getting right up in Wash’s face and giving it right back. If this Portal had sound properly installed, he’s pretty sure the argument would be pretty loud.

You know. Just a guess. Knowing them.

"Well," Wash snarks. "Guess some things never chang—"

—Except that’s the moment the other Tucker grabs Other-Wash by the jaw and kisses him.

Hard, it looks like.

The other Wash sways backward with the force of the movement, head tipped back, jaw being lifted by Tucker’s hand cupping the curve. It’s hard. It’s insistent.

But it’s also…kinda vulnerable.

This Other-Tucker kisses Wash like he’s the only thing that can keep him alive, like Wash’s got all the secrets, all the answers. And the Other-Wash kisses back, rallies and sways into Tucker’s space, hands going to his hips and pulling them together, an almost frantic clutch, like he’s afraid the other man will slip away.

Tucker blinks. Blinks again. Doesn’t dare look at Wash. Look, it would be really great if those two assholes could stop that already. Like, now. Now. How about now. No? Fuck. Don’t look at Wash, Don’t look at Wash, don’t look at Wash—

"Er," Wash starts. Stops. "Well…"

"Yeah."

After an eternity of not looking at Wash, not wanting to watch the weird making out in front of him (but also not being able to look anywhere else) the alternate versions of themselves finally separate, but only from the lips. The other Tucker keeps his hands cupped around Wash’s jaw, and fuck, they’re doing the forehead touch thing. The cheesy thing. The thing Tucker swore he’d never do unless he was absolutely sure it’d get him laid with a 10 (and oh _fuck_ the implications of that).

Tucker can read the words on Wash’s lips. “Don’t ever do that again.” He has a feeling he’s not talking about the kiss.

The portal flickers, goes dark. Comes up again on some field with purple grass.

He can feel Wash’s eyes on him. He’s not going to look. Not going to turn his head. The purple fucking grass is really interesting, okay?

"Well, fuck."


	9. Chapter 9

Tucker finds Wash in the kitchen. Looking out the kitchen window, hands braced against the counter, body cut almost to a right angle. Brow furrowed, deep in thought. He doesn’t have to ask what Wash’s thinking about. He was there, earlier, when the red haired walked back into Wash’s life.

"So, guess that chick’s alive then," Tucker says. "The one you said died at the start of all that shit? Back when you were in the military?"

"Yeah," Wash says, not moving. "Carolina."

Tucker crosses the kitchen to lean back against the counter, posture deceptively loose for the unhappy tension hovering in his gut.

He waits. Because sometimes he’s not a complete idiot, and sometimes he knows when to shut the fuck up.

"I’m glad she’s alive," Wash says, finally. "I’m _glad_.”

"Course you are," Tucker says. "Your friend’s not fucking dead."

"Some of them still are," Wash says. "I think. But she was our leader. She held us together. Our Boss."

Tucker can hear the capitals, the title, the meaning in that word.

"They told me she was dead," Wash continues. "They told all of us she was dead. I got cut not long after that, I still don’t know what happened to some of them."

Tucker boosts himself up to sit on the counter, next to Wash. He bumps their shoulders together, a cautious point of connection, an offer for comfort.

"You think she woulda told you," he says, because Wash isn’t going to, for all it’s hovering under his every word.

Wash sighs gustily. Closes his eyes.

"Yeah," he says. "You would."

Tucker looks at him, really looks at him for a moment. He has seen Wash in a lot of shitty circumstances, dealing with a lot of shitty stuff. Wash carries a lot, for a guy his age. A lot of disappointment, betrayal and heartbreak for a guy who’s really just a giant dork who likes skateboarding, being with the people he cares about and a job well done, who’s constantly fucking up emotional conversations and trying anyway, and also who cold probably think of fifty ways to kill you at the drop of knife. He’s seen Wash deal with a lot of shit.

He’s never seen this kind of sorrow on him before. Never seen this particular curve of defeat in his spine.

"Hey. C’mere."

Wash lets him, malleable in his hands as Tucker wraps his arms around him, pulls him to lean back against him, back to chest. Usually it takes Wash a minute to let himself accept affection, this is something Tucker’s used to. But today, Wash sinks gratefully back into the cradle of his body, into his warmth, drapes an arm over Tucker’s thigh. Today, Wash just presses his cheek against Tucker’s, and it makes something go soft and protective in Tucker’s chest. Makes him want to keep Wash right here, forever, or at least until he doesn’t look so exhausted. So sad. He’s so pale under those freckles.

That softness melts into a flare of emotion, a curl of anger deep in his gut. He’s tired of watching life kick Wash in the teeth. He likes to hope he can be Wash’s harbor, he can be Wash’s reward at the end of the road. He hopes he’s going to get to stick around long enough. Neither of them have the best luck with people sticking around.

But right now, he just tightens his arms around Wash, feels Wash lean deeper against him in response, right now he just holds on.

He’ll just have to find a way to keep them holding on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written for creamiceandsugar on tumblr as a gift for her drawing at http://creamiceandsugar.tumblr.com/post/97343455091/you-know-im-gonna-find-the-time-to-catch-your so if you're on tumblr go give it some love


	10. Chapter 10

"You have to take this shit seriously, Tucker!" Wash yells. "This shit could actually save your life someday!"

"Doing a fucking million squats could save my life?" Tucker screams back. "Are we preparing for the zombie apocalypse or something? Sprints are going to save my life?”

Faintly, screaming starts from Red Base. Wash ignores it.

"Yes! They could!" he shoots back. "You never know what kind of skills will save your life! That’s how it works! And you don’t have all that many skills!”

“Who’s trying to kill me?” Tucker demands, looking around theatrically. “Looks like no one. So calm you fucking tits!”

“You never know—“

“You never know what? You never know when someone’s going to betray you? I been living on a team with Caboose for like ten years now, I think I can handle my own shit.”

“I’m trying to help you,” Wash snaps.

“Why?” Tucker demands. “You been on this team for like, five minutes, moron. Why are you even still here? Isn’t that what Freelancers do? Fuck off when it suits them?”

“I—I’m not—“ Wash honest to god stutters, “Why do you have to be so difficult?”

“Why do you have to be such a hardass?” Tucker yells. “I’m sick of your shit! This is the shitty team you got, why you have to try to change shit? We’re not gonna turn into your magical talented Freelancer buddies if you push hard enough! Why can’t you just leave well enough alone?!”

“Because, you asshole,” Wash screams. “I can’t lose you!”

“Yeah, well I can’t lose you either!” Tucker screams back. “But you don’t see me acting like a fuckhead over it!”

They stare at each other, the sound of the Reds’ continued indistinct screaming the only sound. The haze in Wash’s minds clears, leaves cold realization of what he just said behind.

“Oh, fuck.”

Wash looks up, startled at Tucker’s exclamation. He’s kind of surprised that he’s not actually the one that said that. If he could see Tucker’s face, rather than just reading his body language, he’d say he looks…startled?

“Did you just—“

“You just—“

“You didn’t mean it like that.”

“I didn’t mean it like anything.”

“Because it sounded like you meant something.”

“Well, you did too.”

“Maybe I did.”

“No, you didn’t.”

They stare at each other again. The screaming from Red Base has formed words, repeated yells about “zombie plan, what’s the zombie plan?”

“Fucking Christ,” Tucker says, walking away.

Wash doesn’t stop him.


	11. Chapter 11

"Storm’s coming," Wash says.

Tucker looks over at him. They’re standing on the roof of the new Blue Base. After working together for so long on Chorus it almost feels strange to have the Reds split off, a building away again. But mostly it just feels like a return to normal.

It had been a nice moment, a quiet moment, just the two of them standing around, staring at the sky. Then the words Wash just said penetrate, and Tucker sighs explosively.

"Jesus Christ, man, do you really still have to be cryptic all the time?"

Wash sends him a confused look, which Tucker ignores.

"I mean, _really?_ Also-- no. _Hell_ no. We’re not due for another shitshow for at least another week. No returned dead people, ship crashes or mysterious visitors for at least another week, you get me? We’re on vacation from shitshows for now. This. Is so. Not. Happening. So whatever’s coming at us, it can fucking _wait_."

"Tucker—"

"No," Tucker interrupts. "Me, you, and a locked door. Caboose can go sleep at the Reds’. That is all the whole plan for tonight. And, like, every night. For a week. I just got you back, and I am not dealing with any more bullshit until one or both of us has ended up on their back. Or bent over something, I’m not picky. No.”

"Tucker," Wash says. "I just meant, it’s going to rain."

Tucker stares.

"Oh."

"Yeah."

Tucker looks back at the sky. It does look like there’s some grumpy clouds gathering in the west.

Somehow he knows without looking that Wash is laughing at him. Silently, but he’s laughing.

"Shut up."

"I didn’t say anything."

Tucker shoves his shoulder a bit in protest. Wash bumps him back affectionately, turns.

"C’mon," Wash says. "Let’s get inside."


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for the prompt "Drunkenly breaking into the wrong house and getting found on the couch the next morning"

"You are not Freckles," Tucker tells the cat sitting on his chest upon waking, "Also you are a cat and not a dog, and I think I’m still too drunk for this."

"Freckles lives next door," a voice says and Tucker looks up to see a hotass blonde glaring at him with his (impressive) arms crossed over his (frankly indecent) chest, "With Caboose. Who I will be calling to pick his drunken idiot up. Right now."

The hot guy leaves and Tucker frantically tries to get his brain to turn on the “flirt” function, because he figures he’s got, like, eight minutes to turn this around or he’s gonna lose his chance at hitting that, and that is a goddamn tragedy.

**Author's Note:**

> QueSeraAwesome.tumblr.com


End file.
